


Seeking the Light

by agentx13



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Detective AU, F/M, Psychic AU, background Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanoff, ghost au, sharon carter month
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:29:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27939722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentx13/pseuds/agentx13
Summary: Detective Steve Rogers never believed Sharon Carter's abilities to see the dead were real... until the night he is shot while working a case. Now, he needs help, and she's the only one who can see and hear him.
Relationships: Sharon Carter/Steve Rogers
Kudos: 21
Collections: Sharon Carter Month





	Seeking the Light

Sharon paused as she turned into the alley, where the crowds of tourists were reduced to wandering strays, and her small cart of groceries squeaked to a halt behind her. There was a figure leaning against the wall beside her door, and it was one she recognized. She doubted he was here for her help; they didn’t have a friendly history. Civil, perhaps… mostly civil, at least. But she got along better with people who were him-adjacent, and he got along better with people who were her-adjacent. Trying to pretend as if this were normal, maybe even as if she’d expected it, she hauled her groceries up the narrow brick path. “Detective Rogers,” she greeted him. She pulled her cart onto the stoop and rooted around for her keys.

He didn’t move as he watched her, keeping his hands in his pockets. “Gotta admit, I never really believed that… psychic stuff. About you.”

She flashed him a careful and civil grin, determined not to take offense. “That’s why I like Detective Wilson more.” Her tone came out harsher than she’d intended, but she didn’t apologize. 

She opened the door and pulled her cart inside. She didn’t ask him for help; even if he’d offered, she’d decline. She doesn’t want to be indebted to him. “If you don’t believe me, what are you here for?”

He followed, his hands still in his pockets. He wore his usual cheap office suit, wrinkled by the heat and humidity where he bent to sit or crouch to study a crime scene. “You can’t guess?”

She looked at him in faint exasperation. “I can’t do lottery tickets, detective, if that’s what you’re here for.” In the typical fashion of houses remodeled throughout New Orlean’s history, her house on Exchange made little sense to the modern mind. She lugged her cart up the stairs to the second floor to reach the kitchen, because naturally, the ground floor only had an open area and a bathroom so tiny it was nearly unusable. She’d come to think of the room of as her office, where she met with clients. To that end, it was full of plush furnishings and a large coffee table and a smattering interesting tidbits that did nothing to distract from the bar in the corner installed by the previous owner.

The floor above was also an open space, but also much more of a home. It held a kitchen to one side, a dining table, and a couch and some chairs to watch the television on the wall. Rogers looked around with interest, and not at the exposed brick walls with their art, or the old wooden floors with their history’s worth of scuff marks. He seemed to be looking for something.

“I hid all the skulls and witches’ brews before you came over.” She plopped her cart beside her fridge and started tossing in the foods that needed to be refrigerated haphazardly. 

“I wasn’t-” He grimaced as he remembered past comments about her – yes, she knew about those, in part because he’d said them in her presence. He might have said them under his breath so he could claim he didn’t, but he had a voice that carried. “I’m sorry. I never believed you before.”

She shrugged. “A lot of people don’t have to believe me in order not to be dicks.” She raised an eyebrow at him, wanting him to know she was aware of his ruder feelings about her. He clearly wanted something, and the petty part of her wanted to see him squirm first. Once he looked suitably chastised, she moved to the pantry. Again, her method was haphazard. It wasn’t like she had that many groceries. “So what changed your mind?”

“Well.” He stroked his chin. “You can see me. And I’m dead. So…”

She turned to look at him, a bag of chips she’d tossed into the cabinet slowly sliding out and falling unnoticed on the counter.

* * *

“I’ve been working a human trafficking case. Off the books. I think someone at the department is involved.” He paced on a rub her neighbor had claimed to make especially for Sharon one Christmas; the rug was one of those overly-soft and fluffy monstrosities sometimes spotted in flea markets and dumpsters, and Sharon had often been tempted to add her rug to the dumpster pile. The trouble was she’d have to get another rug to hide that old stain on the floor, and she hadn’t yet found one she liked.

The important thing was, if Detective Rogers were alive, he’d be flattening the rug when he walked on it, and the showed no signs of being walked on. She didn’t think he would appreciate that being pointed out to him, though.

She sat on her couch in the living room, a cup of iced tea condensing in her hands. Nearby, all of her doors to the balcony overlooking the alley were open, letting in the sounds, smells, and hints of breeze from outside. Overhead, all of her fans were doing what they could to help cool the room down. They never succeeded, but Sharon had never given up hope the system might work one day. “You don’t think Detective Wilson is involved, do you?”

“No, not Sam. But he can’t see me right now, and I didn’t tell him what I was doing.”

She sighed.

“I know, I know. I didn’t want to put him at risk.”

“So you need me to talk to Detective Wilson for you so he can catch who killed you?”

“And wrap up the case, preferably.”

“But catching whoever killed you couldn’t hurt.”

“It definitely wouldn’t hurt my feelings, no.”

She took out her phone. Technically, NOPD’s 8th District building was right around the corner, but this needed to be a private conversation.

“I don’t have any cases,” Wilson greeted her without waiting for her to say anything. “And I hope you don’t have one for me.”

“I haven’t found a body, if that’s what you mean. Could you come by as soon as you can?”

He fell silent, only the background noise of the bullpen audible. In typical New Orleans fashion, one of the tourists claimed to be going local by peeing on an officer, and to please not call his mom. “I’ll be there in five.”

He was there in less than three, barely waiting for her to open her office door before hopping in and closing and locking the door behind him. “So no body… A ghost?”

She frowned at him as she led the way up the stair. She’d have thought he’d have realized by now why she’d called. Wilson was a clever man. “Your partner.”

Wilson tripped on the steps and barely caught himself before he knocked out all of his teeth. “Steve?”

She looked at Detective Rogers’ spirit. “Detective Rogers, yes.”

Wilson shoved himself up. This time, his steps were slow as he reached the landing and sat heavily in a chair. “That’s not good.”

Her frown deepened.

“What the hell does he mean by that?” Rogers asked.

“Meaning?” Sharon asked.

Wilson looked toward her balcony without seeing it. “Because Steve isn’t dead.”

* * *

She stared at him, then waved a hand at Rogers’ spirit. “He’s right there, detective. I swear.”

“I don’t think you’re lying to me, Sharon. It’s just- Well, he’s _supposed_ to be at University Medical Center. They found him near Governor Nicholls Street. Thought he was dead at first. Shot and beaten to a pulp.”

Sharon tried to temper her glare at Rogers but failed. “You could have mentioned that.”

Detective Rogers shrugged helplessly. “All I remember is one of Darcy Lewis’s friends said she went to the port to investigate something. I went through some security footage and saw her there the night she disappeared.”

Sharon relayed the message to Wilson, who stroked his chin. “I’ll do what I can,” he said at last, as if he didn’t expect to accomplish much. He stood as if he were tired to his bones. “Does he keep the files in the usual place?”

“They’ll be watching him,” Rogers said. “The people who attacked me. They might think I told him something.”

“I’ll get them,” Sharon offered. “Detective Rogers thinks you’re being watched.”

Wilson frowned and nodded. “If you get them this afternoon, can I come by for dinner?”

“So long as you pay,” she said.

“Oof. Cop food. You’re turning into a masochist.” His hand fell absently to his gun as his mind wandered. “Steve has a guard on him in the hospital. Could you get in touch with his friend Barnes, ask him to sit on the guards, make sure they’re legit? If I’m being watched, I can’t do it.”

Sharon nodded. “Of course. I’ll do that before I get his files for you.”

Wilson nodded and twisted a key off his key chain. He handed it to her. “Steve’s key. So I don’t hear about you getting arrested trying to break in.”

She saw him out and turned to Detective Rogers. “Barnes?”

Rogers ran a hand down his face. “Uh. Yeah. His place is in Metarie.”

Sharon nodded and headed toward Canal St to catch the streetcar. “And your place?”

“An apartment on Peters.”

She nodded and stopped talking. Not everyone appreciated having someone around who looked like they were talking to an invisible person. Even in New Orleans, there was a limit to how much weird people wanted to experience. For the next hour and a half of streetcar and bus rides, whenever Detective Rogers talked to her, she answered by typing out a note on her phone and tilting it slightly so he could see. He caught on quickly; she had to give him that.

In Metarie, he directed her to the second floor of a rundown apartment. She rang the doorbell, then rang it again. About to ask Rogers to pop his head in and tell her if anyone was home, the door wrenched open, revealing a man in crumpled slacks and a sweat-stained undershirt, trying to button his shirt with one hand. Behind him lounged a woman with red hair, dressed, as the man was, for the heat of summer in a crumpled sundress she’d pulled up to her thighs.

“That’s Natasha,” Rogers explained as he followed Sharon’s eyeline. “She’s his partner and girlfriend.”

“Can I help you?” Barnes asked.

“Detective Wilson asked me to come. He suspects he’s being surveilled, or else he’d do it himself.”

“And what does the illustrious Detective Wilson want from me.” From his tone, Sharon guessed they weren’t friends.

“Detective Rogers was shot and beaten rather badly last night.” That got Barnes’ attention. “We think his life is still in danger, possibly from other police officers, and Wilson wants you to watch the police guarding his room.”

Barnes nodded. “Consider it done. Let me get some stuff.” He disappeared into the room, which seemed to double as living quarters and office. “Who are you, exactly?”

“Sharon Carter. I help the police when I can.”

“You’re one of those psychics,” Natasha drawled. “I’ve heard about you.” She turned her head to watch Barnes as he worked.

Sharon grimaced. “I don’t really like that word.”

“Why? You are one, aren’t you?”

She shrugged. “It always makes me feel like a vulture.” She pressed some fingers to her temple. “’Your loved one is near a body of water…’”

Natasha grinned and twisted out of her chair. “So why did Wilson get you involved?”

“Technically, I got him involved.” She pointed at her eyes. “Detective Rogers came to see me this morning. At least he believes I’m legit now.”

Barnes scoffed. “Ask him about my hoodie that he stole.”

Rogers groaned. “Ask him why he never washed it and still thought it would get him laid.”

Barnes blinked as she relayed the answer. His eyes narrowed. “Baseball.”

Sharon made a face at Rogers’ answer. “You like the _Dodgers?_ ”

“We’re wasting time,” Natasha reminded them.

“Right.” Barnes grabbed his keys and looked to Sharon. He seemed uncertain whether to believe her abilities, but that he was uncertain was better than he clearly didn’t. And the important thing was that he was willing to help. “Want a ride?”

“That would be great,” she said sincerely. “Thank you.”

Natasha gave her a gentle shove toward the steps. “Don’t thank him,” she said congenially. “The air conditioner is broken.”

* * *

She wasn’t entirely surprised when both Barnes and Natasha insisted on escorting her to Rogers’ place. She didn’t particularly mind; it was easier to act normal when she was with actual people instead of listening to a dead man who gave convoluted directions. As much as Steve might be in danger, they seemed to think that she might be in just as much danger if she went to his place alone. After all, Barnes argued, why wouldn’t they watch his place if they thought he’d left something there? They’d make it quick and get to the hospital in no time. After all, with Steve telling them where the information was, how long could it take?

Barnes had a key. “Hey. Can you ask Steve if he’ll will this place to me?” he asked as he let them in.

“He says you can fuck off, and no.”

Barnes grinned. “That’s fine. I know how to fake his handwriting.”

Rogers sighed and led her to his bedroom. His apartment was three rooms, with a joint kitchen and living space. His bedroom and bathroom completed the ensemble. Everything was clean and orderly and exactly as she’d expected. “Bucky became a cop alongside me,” he explained. “But the job got to him. He’s a private investigator now. He’s good, but New Orleans is full of private investigators. Not easy to make a living that way.” He attempted to push his bed aside and ended up falling through it.

Sharon looked over her shoulder, where Barnes and Natasha had followed her. She tried to shove the bed as Rogers had. “Your first name is _Bucky?_ ”

“Middle name’s Buchanon.” He moved to her side and gave the bed a shove. “This is a new hiding place.”

“If it _is_ a hiding place,” Natasha murmured.

Sharon ignored her and followed Rogers’ directions to pull up a knot in the wooden floor. It opened like a latch, revealing several plastic bags stuffed with files. She looked at Rogers. “No heads? No witches’ brews?”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

Barnes grabbed the bags and quickly opened them, his eyes flying over the files inside. “He wrote it in his damn code again,” he muttered. “He knows I hate that code.”

Sharon replaced the wood. “He says you can read it.”

“Yeah, but not as fast as he can write it. It also means I can’t be on the protection detail if any of those cops are dirty.”

“I’ll do it,” Natasha offered. “Which hospital?”

“Uni Med.”

Natasha nodded and was gone, leaving Barnes muttering to himself over a notepad, Sharon watching him, and Rogers telling Barnes what he’d written before remembering Barnes couldn’t hear.

He looked at Sharon. “I didn’t how difficult this would be.”

“Dying isn’t always as easy as it sounds,” Sharon agreed.

Barnes looked up. “What?”

“Nothing. I live a couple blocks from here, and Detective Wilson is due to come by soon anyway. Want to join us?”

Barnes shrugged. “If Wilson buys dinner, sure.”

* * *

He whistled as she let him into her place. “How the hell did you afford a place like this? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Insurance fraud.”

He suddenly looked much more like a cop, and she grinned.

“My family had some money. And the people I help have some money, or have something they want returned. The finders’ fees are… helpful. Not to mention I sometimes… well. I have… you could call them clients, I suppose.”

“Psychic sessions?” He followed her up the stairs.

She made a face. “Not really. If someone comes to me wanting help, I tend to get their living family or friends involved. It’s usually better that way.”

He stopped and looked up at her. “You really believe this stuff, don’t you?”

Rogers cut in. “He can be an ass. Sorry.”

She shrugged. “Whether you believe me or not makes no difference to me.” She led him to the living room. “Tea?”

“Iced. Sweet.” He tossed himself on the couch and dropped the bags on the coffee table, opening one and taking out the files to get to work. He barely noticed when she set the tea on a coaster nearby.

She sat and nursed her own iced tea. “Detective Rogers was following someone named Darcy Lewis. She’d been investigating her friend’s disappearance. If they caught her, she doesn’t have long.”

“Probably too late.” His tone implied he’d seen this countless times before. 

“Not for a human trafficker,” Sharon argued.

Rogers smacked himself. “Rumlow. Rumlow was there. I remember. He asked me if I wanted backup. I told him he shouldn’t be there, and-” He rubbed his back. “And then… Rumlow was there.”

Sharon turned back to Barnes. “Do you know someone named Rumlow?”

Barnes’ eyes clouded just the doorbell rang, a pleasant, singsong sound. He looked up, confused.

“I know, I know,” she said, tired. “You expected recorded screams.”

“You’re not selling the psychic bit, is all,” but he didn’t sound convinced.

Sharon escorted Wilson back up the stairs.

“She mentioned Rumlow,” Barnes greeted Wilson. Before Wilson could protest at his presence, Barnes held up a hand. “Natasha is at the hospital. I’ve been trying to read Steve’s notes.”

Wilson took one glance at the bags of notes, dropped the food on the coffee table, and grabbed a bag.

Sharon sighed and went to fetch plates and silverware. He didn’t respond to her question about tea, so she brought him a glass of iced tea.

“Detective Rogers says Rumlow was at the port. He was there when Rogers was shot.” Sharon’s brow wrinkled as she struggled to keep up with Rogers’ rapid speech. “Rumlow saw that he was researching the ports and that he’d pulled the file on Darcy Lewis’s friend. Rumlow must have followed him. Rumlow can lead you to Darcy.”

Wilson and Barnes looked at each other.

“I’ll go find Rumlow,” Wilson said, standing.

Barnes stood, too, “I’ll tag along. You’ll need someone watching your back if you get into trouble.”

* * *

Sharon had only just finished cleaning up after them – leftovers for weeks, if she cared for greasy Chinese food – when the doorbell rang again. Honestly. Where had they even found Chinese food in the Quarter?

She sighed. She’d had enough of those stairs for one day. If Detective Rogers hadn’t gone to watch Wilson question Rumlow, she’d have sent him down.

She could just ignore it, she reasoned.

The doorbell rang again, and she sighed again.

Going down the stairs, she wondered if it was another tourist drunkenly angling for a tour, or one of those dreadful YouTubers trying to get an interview.

Peeking through the window, it turned out to be a somewhat handsome man with dark hair and a five o’clock shadow, wearing a suit and an easy grin. “Hi,” he said through the glass. “Miss Carter? I was hoping I could get a consultation with you.” He held up his police badge for her inspection.

She didn’t move to open the door. Just because her skill set didn’t involve seeing the future didn’t mean she didn’t trust her instincts. Rogers had been attacked by a dirty cop. And that same night a cop unfamiliar to her showed up. Right. She smiled. “Sorry, officer. I’m unavailable at the moment. I was just about to-” She frowned. “To sleep. Long day.”

Awful excuse.

“It would really help me out,” he said, his smile still in place.

She shook her head. The smile was out of place. There was something in his eyes, too. Or, rather, something missing from his eyes. “Sorry. Come by tomorrow?”

He nodded, looking disappointed. “First thing.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

Like hell.

* * *

She woke to find a hand around her neck. Her eyes flew open. Her room was never completely dark; lights from the alley outside played along the wall, revealing the hulking shadow straddling her, pinning her hips to the bed.

“Wilson visited you twice today,” a familiar voice said. “On the off-chance you’re legit, I need to know what you told him.”

Her hands going to his, trying to find a way to pry them away.

He made a sound of discontent. “Hands on your head. I won’t hurt you if you tell me what I want to know.”

Well, _that_ was a lie. She was able to identify him. She could tell what he asked her. He had to kill her.

He had her at a disadvantage; if she killed him, she’d just have to put up with him after. Creepy and evil ghosts were the _worst._

“Well?”

She swallowed, feeling his hand heavy on her throat as she did so. “Detective Rogers left notes in code at his apartment.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, her fright palpable. As expected, he leaned in closer, utterly unafraid of her weak, frightened self. Sucker.

“I already saw Barnes with them. What’s in them?”

Ugh. This was going to suck.

Holding her breath, knowing things would get worse before they got better, she lifted her hands to his face. The trouble with being close enough to strangle someone meant being close enough to strangle someone, which meant she was close enough to shove her thumbs into his eyes.

He yelled, one hand tightening around her throat as his other went to her hands, trying to grab them before she could do serious damage. She knew he was stronger than she was, but she was the one fighting for her life. She clawed his cheeks, withdrawing her hands before he could grab them.

The punch to his throat was mostly guesswork, but it was enough to get him to fall off of her. She pushed him backwards, trying to hit him while he grabbed at her hair and her throat, still blinded by the pain in his eyes.

She lost track of how many hits she took and gave in return before he hit her one final time and ran for it.

Left alone in her apartment, she shivered. It took her a moment to gather her wits enough to crawl to her phone. She called Detective Wilson.

“Sharon? What’s up?”

She croaked out a response. It almost sounded like a cry.

His tone turned grim. “I’m on my way.”

* * *

There was a quiet knock at her door, and she turned her head, the hospital pillow crinkling with the movement. Her throat hurt like hell, along with parts of the rest of her, but the crinkling pillow was the lowest indignity yet.

Rogers sat in a wheelchair, his foot in a cast, his shoulder bandaged, what she could see of his face swollen and patched up from wounds. He gave her a little wave. “May I?”

She nodded.

He wheeled over to her bedside. “Voice still not working?”

She shrugged. Let him figure it out.

He looked to the window, then to her, then away again. She used the buttons to sit up. “They caught Rumlow. He didn’t crack, but Sam put pressure on some of his friends, and one of them did. We found Darcy and her friend and a bunch of others. I mean, I _think_ you know about the case I was working on.” He paused, his fingers playing along with the arm of the wheelchair. “I had the weirdest dream,” he said at last. “I told Bucky and Sam about it. They say it’s not a dream. You- you really saw me?”

She nodded. Taking her phone, she typed slowly with a bandaged hand before showing him the message.

He grinned. “Yeah, I believe you’re legit now. That’s actually why I’m here. I, uh, I figure I should apologize. Make it up to you. I was… I think I might have been a bit of an asshole to you.” His eyes darkened. “Not to mention how I almost got you killed.”

She shrugged, then hesitated. She typed some more.

He leaned in to read the message. He swallowed. “That’s fair.”

Another message.

“I wouldn’t say it’s a punishment,” he said thoughtfully. “I’d like to take you out. I was going to ask, actually. I just thought… since I haven’t always been kind to you. I assumed you were trying to take advantage of people…” She shot him the bird, and he grinned. “I misread you. I’d like to read you better.”

He leaned in again to read the latest message and suppressed a smile. “No, I’m not going to read you like one of my French girls. How much pain medication did they give you?”

In answer, she gave him a thumbs up.

* * *

It was on their third date that he said, “You know you have a light?” He looked taken aback by his own words. “When I was dying, I mean. You were a light. I could see it.”

“I’ve gotta get found somehow,” she reasoned.

“I could see you,” he said as if trying to get her to understand he wasn’t saying. “How much you wanted to help, I mean. It was like I knew what you were feeling. How good you were. How much I’d been wrong about you.”

She thoughtfully sipped at her soup. “I didn’t know I had a light,” she admitted. “But I know you weren’t a bad person, even when you were being an ass.”

He grinned. “I’m glad you could see that.”

She grinned back, mostly because he was easy to grin back to.

* * *

He ended up moving in with her. For additional security, he said, but they both knew it wasn’t true.

“But where will you sleep?” she asked, far too innocently. They’d been together months at that point. He knew she only had one bed. He’d been in it with her several times.

“I’m more concerned about organizing your pantry,” he said with unexpected fervor. “And keeping Sam and Bucky and Nat from moving in.”

She shrugged. “If they want, they can move in next door.”

He looked at her in confusion.

“I own that, too,” she explained. “And the one on the other side. The neighbors complained about my… oddities.” She tapped her lips with a finger. “But if we have neighbors there again, I guess we can’t be as loud as we like…”

He grinned and swooped in for a kiss. “I think they can deal.”


End file.
